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(Salvatore Lucania)
* * *
“What’s with the handkerchief?” John Craig said, handing it all back.
“It’s from Luciano’s family. It will be recognized, establishing our bona fides, and it may damn well be key to finding Tubes.”
Canidy returned the envelope to his pocket. Then he stood, tested his work, and announced, “Your desk, more or less, is ready.”
* * *
Even though Canidy had at least fifty pounds on Mariano, John Craig could see that he was having trouble getting him down the stairs. The rigor mortis had set in while Mariano had been tied to the chair, and his muscles now rigidly held the body in the seated position.
Ten minutes later, Canidy reappeared alone at the top of the stairs, grabbed the dirtiest sheets, then went back downstairs.
When he came up the next time, he found that John Craig had opened the suitcase and dug out its contents to reach the false bottom, then taken out the transmitter, the receiver, and the power supply. The three instruments were now on the low wooden table, connected by two thick black power cords with chromed plugs.
After hooking up the antenna—a six-foot length of thin, dull, bare wire—John Craig had run it out the window, attaching it along the plant shelf there.
Canidy walked over to the two shredded mattresses and dragged them to the front wall.
John Craig yawned.
Canidy saw it and said, “There’s your luxury five-star accommodations—but not before you get your ass on the air.”
* * *
John Craig, sitting on the floor, put his fingers together as if in prayer. He interwove his fingers, then stretched his arms, palms out, causing at least a half-dozen knuckles to make rapid popping sounds. Then he separated his hands and exercised his right hand, wiggling his fingers and rotating his wrist.
Canidy watched the ritual with mild amusement. He had seen Tubes do the same in the very same place.
The transmitter and receiver had black Bakelite faceplates with an assortment of switches and dials. The bottom right-hand corner of the transmitter featured a round key on a short shaft that resembled a black drawer pull handle.
After a long moment, he finally looked up at Canidy, who was puffing on his cigar.
“Ready when you are. Do you want to send encrypted?”
“No, out in the open is fine. Message: ‘Hail, Caesar! We have checked into the Ritz, and are partaking of local wine, women, and song. Tell Hermes thanks for the lift. Send our mail in next five minutes, or tomorrow. Jupiter/Apollo.’”
“Hermes is god of—?”
“Flight, of course. He’s also the god of thieves and mischief, which nicely fits Darmstadter. Stan’ll figure out that part, no doubt.”
John Craig made a weak smile, then looked serious.
“You’re not mentioning me, landing in the tree and screwing up my foot? And screwing up the mission?”
“Well, you haven’t screwed up the mission. Yet. And what can they do about your foot? It’s our problem.”
John Craig nodded, then held one of the headphone cups to his ear with his left hand. He looked at the W/T transmitter box and put his right index and middle fingers lightly on the round key, and began rhythmically tapping out the Morse code.
After a minute, he said, “Done. I added ‘confirm receipt.’”
Then he threw the switch to RECEIVE.
Almost another minute later, with the can still on his ear, he heard the receiver tap out, “Apollo. Receipt confirmed. Good to hear your hand. Be safe, buddy. Daffy.”
John Craig put down the headset, grinning at the mental image of Bob Duck, his deputy in the OSS Algiers commo room. Eighteen-year-old “Daffy” Duck took great delight in mimicking the voice of cartoon characters. He did it as skillfully as he tapped out Morse code—and often did it at the same time, ending more than one string of code by filling the commo room with his lively version of Porky Pig’s Tha-tha-that’s all, Folks!
